I recently watched The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It (which just got released on HBO), and it inspired me to write this little piece of horror flash fiction. I also used this creepy image as a prompt. The story is 553 words and has an estimated reading time of 2 minutes. Let me know what you think!
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Here’s a piece of flash fiction about someone who takes the “reading life” to the next level. It turned out a little long (779 words) and has an estimated reading time of about 3 minutes. Let me know what you think!
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Here’s a little piece of flash fiction about a graverobbing gone wrong. Let me know what you think!
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Here’s a piece of flash fiction I cooked up about going to rehab at the worst possible time. Enjoy!
It was all too much for Grayson.
On the TV screen, images of car bombs exploding in the nation’s capital and other various cities triggered his anxiety. Nothing was happening in his city – Philadelphia – just yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Do we have any left?” Grayson asked his girlfriend, Thea.
“No,” she said. “I’m putting my foot down this time. Now is not the time to be doing Anvil. Look, I know you’re freaked out, but let’s just chill.”
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Flash fiction may be the hardest type of story to write. It can also be incredibly fun. I’ve shared a few here on my site – some are good, others just okay, and some probably suck to be honest! Often, I search the internet for prompts to get me going. So, I decided to devise a list of my own flash fiction prompts for myself and to share with others.
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Everyone wore masks this particular day, some sparkled, and some were dull and gray. But there was one man who went maskless – this man I saw on the street corner. His face was normal as could be: a thin nose, bushy eyebrows, full lips, and ruddy, plump cheeks.
He stood there, beckoning me to come forward amid the masked people walking to and fro. “Did you know,” he started, “that I wear a mask, as well?”
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Most times, my dreams aren’t profound, nor do they make much sense. Dream-logic, I’m told, never does. But this dream felt different. My father appeared on the football field of my youth. In life, he was a short man. But in this dream, he towered over me.
He wore denim dream-jeans, faded blue, and ripped at the knees. He smoked a giant dream-cigarette, and the smoke billowed like it was from a power plant. His dream-muscles were large and imposing, like Zeus’.
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The old man speaks of phantoms. He lay on his death-bed, and his face is ashen and sickly.
“Our home,” he says, “it’s haunted. Haunted by my sins. Haunted by my father’s sins, and his father’s sins.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Continue readingThe old man cried as the yellow half-moon murmured to the birds. The birds squeaked and squawked a beautiful song, but it didn’t stop the wise man from weeping.
“Why do you cry?” I asked him.
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